We will Meet Again Soon, My Love
by Haruka Tenou Distant Sky King
Summary: - Six weeks following his dream-memory, Patrick finally knows that it's time to face the music. More importantly, time to face HER. He just doesn't know if he can do it. - A bit of Patrick/Evelyn teary-fluff for you all.


**Third of the "in story" one-shots, second of the fillers for the gap of "months," and third of my Patrick-centric one-shots. As I said, my muse likes being his voice in my head... Ah, and please, do pardon any crappy characterization on my part... It's my first time writing interactions between these two... DX  
**

**Disclaimer: The movie/book _Angels and Demons_ is property of Dan Brown, and the play _Romes and Juliet_ is copyright to Shakespeare. I own only the plot and the situations; Evelyn belongs to Koneko.**

* * *

He looked out at the sky and the sea, and couldn't help thinking that he knew a pair of eyes much bluer than the sky, and much deeper than the sea. However, he also knew that they could be just as cold as the sky, and as unfathomable as the sea. He loved those eyes, and the woman to whom they belonged; he would admit it, even if it were blasphemous, sacrilegious, and sinful to do so. And the last time he had seen those eyes, the look they had cast him had been desperate, pleading – almost begging.

"…I trust this is acceptable, your Holiness?"

For a moment, he saw those blue eyes – and then he was once more in the present, his own grey eyes snapping open from where they had been closed. He looked about in almost paranoid fashion, but quickly hid this action. Oh, yes, right… He was in a Vatican jet, flying to Spain, and his Cmerlengo, former Cardinal Strauss, was both looking concerned and irritable. It was clear that he wished for an answer to his question, but was also slightly worried that the young Pope hadn't been listening at all. The grey eyed male cleared his throat a bit, and spoke in reply, slightly embarrassed.

"Ah, yes, sorry…" His expression was apologetic. "Please, repeat your question; my thoughts must have been elsewhere."

Strauss regarded him for a moment. "In a purely confidential sense, though not a confessional one, your Holiness…" The elder man began speaking, but then paused, seeming to rethink his choice of words. "In such a sense, Patrick," the use of the young Pope's real first name rather than his title set a completely different mood, "are you… sleeping alright?" The irritation had vanished, and now only the concern remained. Patrick knew that Strauss knew he had had sleeping problems since childhood, but didn't know how to respond just then.

A pause; a momentary beat of silence. He swallowed. "Why… Why does that concern…?" He couldn't fully figure out what he wished to say, and hoped that the elder man would understand his meaning.

It seemed that his Camerlengo did. "For one, Patrick, it is my job, if you will, to know. For another… I know your sins weigh heavily upon your soul, and that things you have done trouble you greatly. You do not fully believe you are ready – let alone _worthy_ – for the office which you have had placed upon your shoulders. I can read it in your eyes."

Patrick drew in a breath, a jolt of shock rocking him to his core. _I can read it in your eyes…_ If Strauss could read just that much, then what _else_…? Oh, dear God, Strauss already knew all of the atrocities he had committed, save only his involvement in the Illuminati threat seven months ago, but this… _This_ was far, _far_ too much… Unknown to the young Supreme Pontiff, he had gone pale, as all the blood drained from his face, and that his knuckles were white as the robe and cassock he wore, from the force with which he gripped the arm-rests of the seat in which he sat.

Seeing his rather obvious distress, Strauss placed a caring but firm hand upon the twenty-five-year-old's shoulder. Patrick rallied his emotions around the presence of that hand like a rock amid the turbulent sea. The two locked eyes for a moment; troubled grey and brown just as firm but caring as that hand.

"It is not a sin to love, Patrick," he intoned quietly. And then his voice gained a touch of warning. "But it can very easily become a sin, I am sorry to say, based upon what you _do_ with that love."

Those words haunted the young Pope, Micheal I, for the duration of his visit to Madrid, and most on the plane to the Canary Islands.

* * *

Hiding in plain sight; he thanked Amara for the skills to do such. With his now-usual white robe and cassock had been exchanged for the black of a priest, and with a trench coat over that and a nondescript black baseball-cap-like hat upon his head, he looked just like any other civilian. With the information networks at his disposal, he had managed to discover what hotel the person that he had come to see was staying at, what room they were in, and for how long they would be here. That was why he had planned his trip the way he had; his Official Papal Visit to Madrid had taken place once he knew the said person was already in the Canary Islands, and as such, wouldn't know that he was even within the country. It may have all seemed convoluted, childish, and just plain stupid at points, but he would be the first to admit he wasn't completely thinking clearly when he had planned all of this out…

Shoving the unneeded thoughts from his mind, Patrick focused upon his goal. The hotel, he had found, wasn't too pricy or upscale, but it did offer beautiful views – from the rooms with balconies, of course. Room #247 had just one such balcony, and he would put it to use. He was almost dreading what kind of reaction he would receive, but he knew backing out now would be nothing short of cowardly and, again, stupid. He had come all this way and planned everything out, so he might as well see it through to the end… whatever that may have been. That thought in mind, and once he knew the person he would be speaking to was on said balcony, he positioned himself below, and began to speak.

He just begged God that he hadn't forgotten _too_ much of the Spanish he had learned in school, and that this friend of his had taught him… He also hoped that he hadn't forgotten the voice projection she had also been taught, but there was less chance of that than the former, considering how many Masses a week he performed and for how many people… He knew he already looked the fool enough… Anything else and he would be too ashamed to show his face again for at least the next year…

"Pero, suave! ¿Qué luz a través de aquella ventana? Es el oriente, y Julieta es el sol. Levántate, hermoso sol, y mata a la luna envidiosa, que ya está enferma y pálida de dolor, que tú eres su arte de limpieza mucho más justa que ella: no ser su criada, ya que es envidia, su librea de vestal es sino los enfermos y verde, y nadie más que los tontos no lo use, lo echó fuera. Es mi señora, ¡oh, es mi amor! ¡Oh, que sabía que eran! Habla sin embargo, ella no dice nada: ¿y qué? Sus discursos de los ojos, y yo le responderé. Yo soy demasiado atrevido, 'tis no me habla: dos de las más bellas estrellas de todo el cielo, que tenía algunos negocios, lo suplico sus ojos a brillar en sus esferas hasta su regreso. ¿Qué pasa si sus ojos estaban ahí, en su cabeza? El brillo de sus mejillas avergonzaría a esos astros, como la luz del día doth una lámpara, sus ojos en el cielo lo haría a través de la corriente de la región ventilado tan brillante que los pájaros cantan y piensan que no fuera de noche. Véase, cómo se apoya la mejilla en la mano! ¡Oh, si yo fuera un guante en la mano, para que yo pudiera tocar esa mejilla!"

For a moment, the blonde woman to whom he was speaking froze, her ice-blue eyes darting down to where he stood. She was quite visibly shocked and frightened for a moment, and then her eyes widened, a sound something like a squeak issuing from her lips. The hat he had worn was removed, and the trench coat he wore was pulled open just enough to show the closed, clerical collar at his throat. Grey and ice-blue locked for a moment, and then she was gone, whirling around so quickly that her pale blonde hair, which was now shoulder-blade-length, fanned out behind herself. He next saw her a few moments later, her face flushed, as she rushed out the doors which lead to the out-door pool. She came up to a stop, just a foot from him, and simply looked at him. The expression on her face held just a touch of fury, but what unnerved him, was the fact that he couldn't read her eyes.

And then she slapped him.

The action came so hard and fast, that he didn't even bother to deflect himself from the blow. Well, not that he would have, of course. He knew he deserved that slap, and so very much more for all the grief that he had caused. Then, suddenly, she was hugging him, a bit of warm wetness seeping through the shoulder of the cassock he wore, indicating that she was crying. Gently pulling back a bit, he found that he had been correct in assuming this. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks were wet with tears. He gently cupped her cheeks in his hands, softly wiping the still-flowing tears with his thumbs. Leaning close, the pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Hey, no more crying, alright Lyn?" He murmured softly, offering her a small, hesitant smile once he had pulled back again. It wasn't the benevolent one had had crafted over the past months, but a real smile. Real in that it was just a touch broken, and showed the weight his actions had placed upon his mind and his heart.

She nodded, hugged him once more, and then grasped his hand in her own, leading him inside and up to her hotel room. They talked the night through, their hands always remaining clasped, as they sat on her bed. And though he was gone by morning, they both felt all the better for the reconciliation. For Patrick, that night had lifted some of the weight he had carried for over half a year, and began healing some of the wounds he had inflicted – both upon himself and upon their friendship.

And for Evelyn, well, her joy was boundless, when she found the small not on her bedside table when she awoke.

_Nos reuniremos de nuevo __pronto, __mi amor…_

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**Pardon the profusion of Spanish; it's the first part of Romeo's speech in Act 2 Scene 2 of the play _Romeo and Juliet_, commonly referred to as "The Balcony Scene." The last line of the story is the title in Spanish.**


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